


A Long Way

by betts



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Daddy Kink, Dry Humping, F/M, Heavy Angst, Huddling For Warmth, Loss of Virginity, Parent/Child Incest, Slow Burn, Uncle/Niece Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-13 21:13:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19259281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: “I’ll take her,” Uncle Jaime announced. The table fell silent. Until now, Jaime had been a motionless specter, staring blankly into the distance. “I know the way. I’ll make sure she arrives safely."“Safely?” Grandfather asked. “You can hardly lift a sword.”“Our army has been decimated,” Tyrion said. “We are at our weakest, and a major threat is rising in the south. I say let Jaime take Myrcella to Winterfell and stand witness at the wedding.”Or: Myrcella is betrothed to Bran Stark, and a grieving Jaime offers to guide her to Winterfell.





	A Long Way

**Author's Note:**

> This is an au in which Brienne and Joffrey are not characters, so Myrcella is the oldest child and Jaime never gets kidnapped by the Starks, pushes Bran out a window, or meets Brienne. I took a bit from book canon, a bit from TV canon, and made up the rest. Apologies for any inaccuracies. 
> 
> Please note I have chosen not to warn. Proceed at your own risk.

* * *

  

 

* * *

 

 _Should the wide world roll away_  
_Leaving black terror_  
_Limitless night,_  
_Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand_  
_Would be to me essential_  
_If thou and thy white arms were there_  
_And the fall to doom a long way._

—Stephen Crane, "Should the Wide World Roll Away"

 

* * *

 

She was born into political upheaval — her uncle murdered the Mad King, and her father claimed the throne. Her childhood floated by in passivity, mediocrity and boredom peppered by glimpses of her uncle. She could feel him when he was near, like they were connected somehow, and always she ran to him, arms lifted. He was usually talking to someone about something important, or on his way somewhere, but whenever he saw her standing there impatiently, he bent down and picked her up, his armor cold, or leather soft, or on rare occasion she found him only in a tunic. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in him. His hands were strong and his body warm. Sometimes he seemed forget he was carrying her at all, and she sat perched on his hip as he went about his tasks, until a septa would come and relieve him of his duties.

She cried whenever he went away. She cried when he returned and didn’t immediately come to visit her. She cried when he didn’t pay as much attention to her as she would have liked. Most days it felt like he was too busy to see her at all — which wasn’t true, of course, but no amount of attention was _enough._ On the rarest days, the best days, he returned from afar with a gift, crouching down to her level and lifting his hands into fists in front of her.

She tapped the right one. He turned his hand up and opened it, empty. She tapped the other, and in it would be some small thing, a ring or pendant or jewel. A gasp and she snatched it up, held it to her heart like the most precious thing she’d ever seen. “Thank you, Uncle Jaime, thank you.”

He placed a small kiss on her forehead, held her cheek in his hand and ran his rough thumb over her soft skin. “Anything for my girl.”

Some nights, she heard the creak of the door to her rooms, quiet footfalls in the dark and a dip in the bed beside her. She blinked open her eyes to see it still night outside.

“Shh, it’s just me.”

He smelled of wine, and ran his fingers through her hair. In the dim moonlight, he smiled down at her, the only moment it was ever finally enough, just the two of them, no septas or Kingsguard or anyone else who might take his attention away. She wanted to ask why he enjoyed coming to her at night, looking at her like she was gilded in gold. Sometimes she let herself imagine what life would be like if Uncle Jaime were her father, if they lived on Casterly Rock, just the three of them, and Mother wasn’t a queen and Jaime wasn’t a knight, just regular people living regular lives. Mother would be so happy, and Myrcella would know, truly know, that she belonged to Jaime, his favorite, and none of them would ever have to leave.

She curled closer to him, appreciating his warmth and the steady tenderness with which he touched her. He rubbed her back soothingly, watching as she returned to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Tommen came and Mother died. It was the only time Myrcella had ever seen Uncle Jaime cry, and even then, it wasn’t something anyone else would notice, just glistening eyes and a clenched jaw, white cape billowing behind him as the pyre ignited. She hated Tommen, not for killing Mother, but for upending their lives. Would Jaime take to Tommen as he had taken to Myrcella? Would he become the favorite? She couldn’t bear the thought, dreamt of throwing the baby out of a window. Drowning him. Suffocating him in his sleep.

For weeks Jaime ignored her, walked past her in the halls without a single acknowledgement, as if she were a servant. At dinner, he kept his eyes on his meal and excused himself as soon as he was finished. He no longer came into her rooms at night. He was a ghost of himself — as if in dying, Mother had taken half of his life with her.

Father and Grandfather and Jon Arryn must have gotten tired of Uncle Jaime’s sadness; out of everyone in the Keep, he was the only one who seemed to mourn. The rest pretended Mother had never lived at all. Father sent Jaime to Riverrun to fight some stupid battle. The night before he left, she lay awake in bed, waiting for him to come to her, give a proper goodbye before the rush of the coming day. Hours passed and still he didn’t arrive. Finally she got out of bed and marched to Jaime’s rooms. She entered without knocking. The bed was empty, no candles lit. She found him on the balcony, looking out over the sea. He was shirtless, wearing only his breeches.

“Uncle?” she said scornfully.

“Myrcella,” he said, startled. Her name in his mouth lifted her heart. “What are you doing awake?”

“You didn’t say goodbye.” Her chin began to tremble. Embarrassed, she looked down at her feet and clenched her jaw to steady it. She was ten years old now. Septa Mordane told her only single-digit children were allowed to cry. “I’ve already lost Mother. I can’t lose you, too. I’ll have no one left.”

“You have your father.”

Her lord father was a fat, drunk buffoon. “I hate him.”

“Tyrion will look after you.”

Tyrion was a short, drunk buffoon, though smarter, and sometimes nicer. “He’s not much better.”

A small smile crept over Jaime’s face. “You have the entire Kingsguard to protect you. You have your septas. Your friends.”

“I’d rather have you.” She took a step closer, expecting Jaime to sweep her into his arms, but he only stayed still, leaning casually against the banister, arms across his broad chest.

“Let me come with you,” she said. “I’ll be useful. I’ll carry your things, sing you songs. You like when I sing.”

His smile turned sad. “That’s not possible, darling. The battlefield is no place for a little girl.”

“Then I’ll grow up. I’ll learn to fight. You can teach me.” She gave up this ruse of distance and wrapped her arms around his waist. The top of her head came only to his stomach. She remembered a time when she toddled toward him, barely taller than his knees. She pressed her face to his belly, skin sticky with midsummer humidity, sweet-smelling like Mother’s favorite soap. Uncle Jaime and Mother had always smelled the same, and it left her feeling sad again, a far-off understanding she could only grasp for a second or two at a time — she would never see her mother again.

“Please, Uncle. Please.”

His combed his fingers through her hair. She was crying now, trying hard not to outwardly weep. Mother would be so angry with her. _Never let them see your heart,_ she used to say. _Men will find your weakness, and seize it._

“Come,” he said softly. “Back to bed with you.”

She looked up, propped her chin against him. “Carry me.”

“You’re too old to carry.”

“If you don’t carry me, I won’t go.”

He sighed and swept her up at the back of her knees, cradling her like a baby. His muscles were hard but his skin was so soft. His steps fell silently, and by the time they returned to her room, she was nearly asleep already. He laid her in bed and tucked her under the covers.

“Will I ever see you again?” she asked.

He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissed the back of it. “I will always return to you.”

 

* * *

 

After Jaime left, she threw herself into her studies, her meager friendships with girls who seemed so narrow of mind. They knew only juvenile love, the love of a girl for her parents, her dolls and toys, her friends, herself. Myrcella knew true love. Love she was willing to die for, that was more important than anything else.

Years passed and she heard no word from Jaime, only the occasional snippet about the war. She learned of all the wars ever fought, all the knights and their great deeds. Her books referred to Uncle Jaime as the Kingslayer. Girls told each other stories of him, divided among those who reviled him and shamefully adored him. She couldn’t reconcile the loving man she knew with the monster everyone spoke of. Oathbreaker, they called him. A man without honor. The first few years, when anyone spoke ill of him, she shouted and threw things, demanded their apologies, cried. Later, she learned to keep her head down and pretend they were talking about someone else. She heard that he took Riverrun, and had traveled south to defeat an encroaching army of Dothraki, led by a young Targaryen. She heard too that the Lannister army was losing, but assured herself that Uncle Jaime was too good to get hurt in battle. Even if people hated him, they could agree — he was the best in all of Westeros.

Shortly after her sixteenth name day, she was required to attend small council. She stared out at the glistening sea while Tommen sat quietly beside her, playing with an empty goblet. Lord Stark had arrived days ago, after his eldest son had died in battle. The entire Keep was on high alert. She had stood with Father and Tyrion to meet him at the gate, took his hand and curtsied as she was supposed to, and promptly excused herself once her duty had been filled. Stark seemed a kind man, though she could not separate his face from any other. Northern men all looked alike: broad and bearded, weighed down by furs. He and Father were good friends, and Father’s spirits were much higher than normal.

Jon Arryn spoke her name and pulled her attention to the discussion. Many people began speaking at once, Varys to Renly, Littlefinger to Pycelle, and she quickly lost track of the conversation, until she caught the words _marry_ and _Bran Stark_ and _enlist the north._ She glanced at Tyrion, the only person at the table who was paying attention to her. Though the conversation was about her, they were speaking as if she weren’t there. She should have seen this coming, really — she’d heard the girls talk about Father once having been in love with Stark’s sister. They’d always wanted to join families, but it never occurred to her that _she_ would be the one to join them. When she opened her mouth to speak, Tyrion shook his head slightly.

“I’ve got a daughter, you’ve got a son.” Father gestured to Myrcella like she was a roast pig waiting to be carved and served. “We need your army to defeat the Targaryen girl and her horsefucker army.”

“It’s settled,” Lord Stark said, standing. His chair squealed across the floor. “Your daughter will return with me to Winterfell.”

“No!” she shouted. Everyone stared at her. Her heart fluttered in her chest. She never spoke at these meetings, or at all, really. Sometimes Septa Mordane told her if she didn’t speak more, the gods would take her voice away. She found it a sweet thought, never to speak again. Nothing she could say mattered anyway.

“Please,” she said to her lord father. “Allow me to finish my studies here.”

“You can complete your schooling in Winterfell,” Lord Stark said, not unkindly. She could tell he was an honorable man, one she could grow to admire, and she was sure his son was a good man as well, but she couldn’t imagine leaving King’s Landing, not before Jaime returned.

“Due respect, my lord,” she said, “but the septas here are the best in all of Westeros. Uncle Tyrion can confirm, my studies are of the utmost importance to me.”

Littlefinger laughed behind his hand. She knew nearly everyone believed her to be stupid.

Everyone except Tyrion. “She’s right, my lord. She requires advanced lessons she can only receive in King’s Landing. It would be a dishonor to cut her education short.”

Renly and Varys exchanged skeptical looks. Irritation flared across Stark’s face, but before he could reply, Father slapped his hand on the table. “He’s right. I’ll have no daughter of mine getting second-rate schooling.”

She sighed in relief. It was decided that Myrcella would marry Bran Stark after her seventeenth name day.

 

* * *

 

Three months before her name day, she awoke to a raucous noise. Horns, bells, cheering. She ran to her window and looked out at the gate. There sat Uncle Jaime on his horse, covered in dirt, hair long and lank, chin drooping to his chest. His arm was bound in a sling, and from where she stood it looked as if — no. At the end of his forearm was only a stump, wrapped in frayed fabric. His army was a fraction of what he’d taken with him.

She dressed quickly and ran outside, but he was already gone. She rushed around, asking where he’d gotten to, but no one knew. His piercing scream echoed through the castle, in the direction of Maester Pycelle’s quarters.

Uncle Jaime was absent from the table that night, and breaking their fast the next day. She walked past his rooms as often as she could, wanting a glimpse of him, but Pycelle had him locked up like a prisoner. She asked how he was doing whenever a septa came out of his room, but they only shook their heads sadly and walked away.

Nearly a week went by before she saw him again. She passed him in the hallway, a stack of books in her arms. He was wearing his hunting tunic. His hair had been trimmed short, his beard shaven. Shadows hung below his eyes and there was no light in them to be found. He didn’t acknowledge her, didn’t even notice her as he passed. His arm was held behind him, and she saw it, then, as she turned back, the stump hidden under his sleeve.

He arrived at supper that evening and took his usual seat. Father accosted him with questions, slaps on the back, inappropriate laughter. Uncle Jaime replied in quiet, clipped responses. Grandfather and Tyrion were silent, as if Jaime’s chair were as empty as it had been these past six years. Jaime barely touched his food, and not once did he look at her. Supper had always been a time when he made funny faces while she bit her cheek to keep from laughing, or offered little remarks like, “Eat your carrots or there will be no cake.” Now he sat idly staring at his food like he’d forgotten how to eat it, fork poised in his left hand. He ate only small things, or anything he could politely tear with his teeth, like black bread. Uncut slabs of meat went untouched. It pained her not to cut it into manageable pieces as he had once done for her, though she knew even if she offered, he would never allow such an undignified thing.

She stiffened in her seat, chin held high. “Uncle Jaime, would you please pass the wine?”

Finally he looked at her. At first he didn’t seem to recognize her. Perhaps he didn’t. She was a woman now, sharp-angled like her mother. Her hair had grown into golden ringlets, and she wore gowns, tailored to the curves of her breasts and hips. His face settled into recognition, but she couldn’t read anything beyond it, happiness or sorrow or surprise. Maybe he’d forgotten she ever existed. Before he could hand over the wine, Tyrion plucked it up and moved it out of reach.

“You’ve had one cup already,” Tyrion said, still the only one who paid attention to her, who cared about her drinking, not wanting her to fall into her lord mother’s old habits. “That’s all you’ll get.”

Myrcella had become so preoccupied with Uncle Jaime, she forgot entirely about her impending marriage to the Stark boy. Jon Arryn brought it up at the next small council. They were deciding who would take her to Winterfell, be it a party or a single guide. Tyrion insisted the Targaryen girl had assassins and spies who could accost them on the road. If not her, the Baratheons still had many other enemies, and carrying a princess in transit was a liability.

“Myrcella would be exceedingly vulnerable to attack,” Tyrion said. “If kidnapped, she could be held ransom.”

Myrcella rarely disagreed with Tyrion — if she got kidnapped, used as a bargaining chip for the Iron Throne, Father would not hesitate to let her die. It seemed ridiculous to pose it as a threat.

While Father thought, the table erupted in speculation. Someone suggested hiring a sellsword named Bronn to guide her on backroads. Others insisted on a caravan of their best knights. A few even suggested that Bran Stark live here at King’s Landing rather than Myrcella moving north, but she knew Lord Stark would never allow his heir to leave Winterfell.

“I’ll take her,” Uncle Jaime announced. The table fell silent. Until now, Jaime had been a motionless specter, staring blankly into the distance. “I know the way. I’ll make sure she arrives safely.”

“Safely?” Grandfather asked. “You can hardly lift a sword.”

Jaime had gained back some of the color in his complexion, though his cheeks were still hollow, his face gaunt. He wore rumpled tunics rather than leather or armor, and he drank all the time. Even now, he held a goblet that had been emptied thrice over since the meeting began.

“Perhaps we should let Myrcella decide,” Uncle Jaime said. Their eyes met for the first time in days. They were green and bright, exactly like her mother’s, though she couldn’t tell what lay behind them. He was a stranger to her, a man who wore her beloved uncle’s face.

“I would like Uncle Jaime to take me,” she said quickly. “We’ll go on foot if we have to. We’ll stay off the kingsroad.”

“Our army has been decimated,” Tyrion agreed. “We are at our weakest, and a major threat is rising in the south. I say let Jaime take Myrcella to Winterfell and stand witness at the wedding.”

Grandfather looked skeptical, even disgusted by the idea of Uncle Jaime taking on an important task, but he said nothing.

“All right,” Father relented. To Jaime, he said, “But if anything happens to her, it’ll be your other hand.”

 

* * *

 

She spent the next week preparing for her journey. Her septas packed bags and trunks full of belongings, but she tried to tell them no, no, it was ridiculous to bring a voile gown to a place that was always cold. They were taking two horses, no carriage or mule. She packed only her most precious and practical belongings — her favorite books, her warmest gowns, a box of all the trinkets and gifts Jaime had given her, a painting of Mother, a small lock of Tommen’s baby hair tucked away into one of her books. In Jaime’s absence, without the threat of losing his favor, her ire for her brother had grown sweet. She enjoyed playing with him, and teaching him, and telling him stories of Mother and Uncle Jaime, who he was too young to remember. It only now occurred to her that she may never see Tommen again, and if she did, he might not well remember her.

The fanfare of their departure was scarce so as to keep prying eyes at bay. It was early in the morning and fog rolled past their ankles. A wet chill blew in the breeze. Father wasn’t awake yet to see them off. It was only Tyrion, Grandfather, Uncle Renly, Varys, and a few of Myrcella’s teary-eyed friends. She hugged them and told them she would send a raven soon. Grandfather gripped her shoulder and smiled at her, a terrifying sight, and wished her the very best. Tyrion, at the end of the line, looked more concerned. He handed her a blade, a small thing in a leather sheath. “Don’t be afraid to use it,” he said. She looked to Uncle Jaime, who was struggling to ready his horse one-handed. A goldsmith had made him a hand, though its heaviness made his body seem lopsided from certain angles, and she sometimes caught him attempting to grasp something with it.

“All right,” she said, taking it delicately, as if it were poisoned. She didn’t know where to put it on her person, so she held it.

Tyrion glanced to Jaime and, under his breath, said, “He’s not the man he once was, nor the fighter. Be vigilant. Take your time.”

“Yes, Uncle,” she said, and nodded her goodbye.

Though she’d taken riding lessons, she never truly mastered it, never felt wholly comfortable atop a beast with free will, her tugs at the reins mere suggestions. Even now, she had forgotten how to climb onto it. During her lessons, she’d always worn breeches, but now she wore a gown and heavy cloak, and had no idea how to approach the thing.

“My lady,” Uncle Jaime said, his flesh hand held out. Another time, he may have looked at her with amusement, picked her up and placed her on the horse to save her the trouble of the climb. Now, his face was severe, hard lines and blanket chivalry in his stare. Scars had always lined his face, but there were more of them now, and his eyes seemed more grey than green in the weak morning light. Even his hair was darker, gold tarnished with streaks of silver. A sudden longing rose in her, one she’d never felt before — a need to touch and be touched by him. A desire to return to the closeness they once had. But that feeling, too, was different. A new kind of closeness, one she had only read about in the most forbidden of books.

She took his hand and climbed onto her horse as gracefully as she could manage. The stable boy told her the horse’s name was Bella, a pretty thing of brown and white, with a pink splotch on her nose. She seemed to be as wary of Myrcella as Myrcella was of her. Jaime climbed onto his horse, Spring, as easily as if he’d never had his other hand at all. He led the way slowly out the gate, golden armor glinting in the morning sun.

 

* * *

 

They rode in silence for several hours. She grew quickly bored, unable to read on horseback, or draw, or sew, or any of the other things that passed the time. Uncle Jaime made it clear he had no interest in making conversation, not that she had tried, too afraid to speak and unsure what she should say. She shoved down the hurt of his distance, and took Tyrion’s words to heart. Jaime was a man grieving, who had watched his twin sister die, endured six years of war, and lost a hand. He surely didn’t have the time or energy for the games of girls, so she made herself as small and quiet as she could.

Eventually her boredom got the better of her, and she began to hum a tune, and slowly the humming turned to singing. It was a song Mother had taught her, one befitting of the heavy green overhang, flowering bushes, beams of noontime light flitting through the eaves. Jaime had been still and steady the entire ride, several paces ahead, but he looked down as she sang, and soon after, pulled to the side and guided Spring off the path to a small clearing. Bella seemed happy to follow, and moved to the side without Myrcella needing to tug the reins.

Jaime slid off his horse, and held up his arms to help Myrcella off hers. His hands — flesh gripping her waist, gold holding her bluntly steady — guided her softly to the ground.

“Thank you, Uncle,” she said, head ducked down to hide the flush that crept to her cheeks. His flesh hand was still on her waist, and they were standing very close. Her head came up to his shoulder now. It was difficult not to hug him, or tease him, smile or play or any of the other things she used to do with him.

“You’ve grown so much,” he said as his hand slipped away from her. “I hardly recognize you.”

“I don’t think I’ll be growing much more.” She busied herself rummaging in her sack for the meal of cheese and bread that had been prepared for them. “It’s a shame I won’t be tall and beautiful like Mother.”

Whatever momentary warmth had been in Jaime’s eyes immediately fled, and she regretted speaking. She vowed to herself she would no longer speak except to respond to direct inquiries or mutter her thanks. Just because she was in the company of Uncle Jaime didn’t mean she could set down all her rules of etiquette. She was a princess, and that meant she had to behave a certain way, even in the presence of those she loved most, even when no one else was around.

They ate quickly and silently and returned to the road. They were still close enough to King’s Landing to stick to the kingsroad, but tomorrow they would veer from it. It hadn’t even been a day and already she was weary. Her hands burned where they gripped the reins. Her stomach churned from the steady motion. Her thighs ached. She hadn’t had to relieve herself yet, but she wasn’t looking forward to it, nor bathing in murky cold rivers, eating gamey meat over a weak flame, sleeping in wind and rain. She had been so excited to spend time with Uncle Jaime, just the two of them, but it was clear he had no interest in her. She couldn’t imagine three months of this.

 

* * *

 

They stopped again shortly before night fell. Her entire body was sore, and she was angry at herself for bringing gowns rather than breeches. Her stomach groaned furiously. By the time Uncle Jaime had built a fire and skinned a rabbit, she was just ravenous enough to eat it. As she expected, the meat was stringy and meager in comparison to suppers in the Red Keep, where she often couldn’t finish her plate. She was still hungry after the food was gone, and pulled from her sack a sweetroll she’d been saving to break her fast the next morning.

Jaime was watching her, and she realized she was eating like a wildling, gnashing teeth, barely done swallowing before tearing off another bite. She slowed, and when she was finished, sucked the sweetness from her fingertips. Finally she felt satisfied, but also exhausted.

“Where do I sleep?” she asked.

“Wherever you want.”

At home, bedtime was an arduous nightly endeavor involving a bath, brushing her hair for an hour, a small snack, and reading by candlelight until her eyes grew too heavy to continue. To think she could just lie in the same place she ate, in the same clothes she wore during the day — everything about it was wrong.

Yet, too tired to argue, she lay on a soft mound of grass, more comfortable than she anticipated, and slipped into sleep as soon as her eyes fell shut.

 

* * *

 

When she awoke, she could barely move. Her muscles were sore, and her bodice was digging into her uncomfortably. The sky was grey and the ground had grown cold. A cloak had been thrown over her — Uncle Jaime’s, though he was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t used to waking up alone. Septas were always there to wrench open curtains and drop off a plate of food and help her dress for the day. From out her window, she could hear the bustle of morning, voices of Kingsguard walking back and forth outside her rooms. The silence that met her this morning chilled her.

“Uncle!” she shouted, glancing around for any sign of him. “Uncle Jaime!”

If he’d left her, she would have no idea how to return home. There had been so many veering pathways on the road, she’d be lucky even to run into a tavern or well-meaning traveler.

She peeked around the clearing, going as far into the brush as she dared, snagging her dress on branches and thorns. “Uncle Jaime!” she called again. Their horses were still there, staring blandly at her as they nibbled grass. Jaime’s bags were all accounted for, and she assured herself he’d only gone to relieve himself, and would return soon.

She used the time alone to kneel by the stream and wash her face. The water was cold, and by the end it felt as if she’d only made herself dirtier. She’d give anything for a mirror, a comb, a stool to sit on and properly rest. It hadn’t even been a full day.

Finally Jaime returned with a half-dozen fish in a net. She hated fish.

“Is that supposed to be our meal?” she asked.

“Unless you’ve got something else in mind.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said, which was a lie. Were she at home, she’d eat the table.

“Suit yourself.” He quickly stoked the fire to life. She sat and watched as he gutted the fish with a knife, holding it down with his boot in lieu of his other hand, and skewered it over the fire.

When it was done, he asked, “It’ll be a long time before we stop again.”

“Fish isn’t a morning food.”

At home, she ate sweetrolls and fruit for breakfast, sometimes mush with cinnamon and butter. Fish! For _breakfast._ She wasn’t a barbarian.

Jaime ate unlike he did in the castle. It seemed easier for him out here. He could tear into it with his teeth rather than fiddling with utensils. He was more relaxed than he’d been the day before, and she began to wonder if it was something about King’s Landing that set him on edge. Maybe he was a wildling at heart.

“Guess I’ll toss the rest away, then,” he said, half finished with the fish, standing to throw it out to the wilderness.

“No,” she said, “I’ll take it.” He handed the stick to her and she peeled back the skin. The meat was pink and flakey. She plucked it apart with her fingers, eating in small bites, pulling away the bones. It wasn’t as bad as she expected. In fact it was quite good. They didn’t have this kind of fish in King’s Landing. Jaime readied the horses while she ate. By the time she finished, she felt a little more hopeful of the day to come.

 

* * *

 

By noontime, her hope was dashed. It had begun to rain, cold fat droplets that weighed down her cloak, and wind that nearly blew her off her horse. They stopped early, Myrcella miserable, Jaime seeming lighter with every step further from King’s Landing. She didn’t have the energy to get off her horse gracefully; Jaime had to nearly drag her off, and she stumbled into him, his platemail hard and cold and annoying.

Wrinkles creased at the sides of his eyes as if he were trying not to smile.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, but the smile that overtook his face belied his answer. Thankfully she wasn’t too grouchy to appreciate it, the first smile she’d seen from him in six years.

“Stop it.” She pushed against his chest and tried not to pout. He didn’t move. “It’s not funny.”

“You act like you’ve never been caught in the rain before.”

“I haven’t.”

Just then a cloud broke and the rain barreled down harder, and now Jaime laughed, delighted. He took her by the hand and said, “Come here.”

She followed him to a meadow, no foliage to cover them. Rain pelted down and soaked her down to her smallclothes. Jaime lifted his face toward it, arms held out. She was too cold to unwrap her arms, but she did look up, eyes closed, and tried to embrace the cold wet that pounded against her eyelids. Finally, of their own volition, her muscles came loose, body giving up its insistence on being dry and warm. She was wet, and would be for many hours, and dirty, and tired, and hungry. There was no fixing it, so she would have to find joy in it.

She laughed like he had done. Rain fell into her mouth, and she drank directly from the sky. When she opened her eyes, Uncle Jaime was watching her.

“There’s so much I haven’t been able to show you,” he said. “So much you haven’t done, trapped in that awful castle.”

For a moment she forgot her vow not to speak. “I certainly prefer it to plucking fishbones out of my teeth before dawn.”

“You sound like your mother.”

It was his fault, this time, for bringing up Mother. If it soured his mood, it was all on him. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he said, smile turning wistful, “not at all.”

 

* * *

 

Armor dried easily — it was metal, after all — but Myrcella’s layers upon layers absorbed the rain well after the sun had returned, and despite the sun's warmth, she was still shivering, her wet cloak offering no respite from the cold damp of her clothes. Uncle Jaime took notice when he looked back to ask if she needed to stop.

“You’re shivering,” he said as he pulled his horse around.

“I’m fine,” she replied, forcing her back straight and her teeth not to chatter.

“You didn't bring traveling clothes?”

She looked away, embarrassed. “I hadn’t considered it.”

“You don’t have to be a royal princess on the road. No dashing young princes out here to woo you. And the squirrels don’t much care for theatrics.”

She thumbed at the blisters rising on her palm. She should be grateful Jaime’s humor was returning, but also she felt so stupid, wanting to be pretty for him when he hardly noticed her anyway. He was a knight, and she was a mission he’d been given, nothing more. Were it not for this journey, he would have continued ignoring her forever.

“Come,” he said with a gesture of his head, and led her off the road a ways. He dismounted, rummaged through one of his bags, and pulled out a dry tunic and breeches.

“I can’t wear these,” she said, clumsily sliding off her horse. “They’re men’s clothes.”

“There’s nobody around to see you.”

“You’ll see me.”

He scrutinized her briefly and then shoved the clothes to her. “Change.”

“Where?”

“In the dressing rooms upstairs.” He nodded to the space between them. “Here, you silly girl.”

She unclasped her cloak and draped it over the back of her horse. “Look away.”

He rolled his eyes and busied himself with his bags. The bottom of her dress was covered in mud. She pulled it from her arms and let it fall to the ground, stepped out of it so she was left in only her bodice and petticoat. Her skin had been scraped raw where the wet fabric and boning rubbed against her underarms. She reached behind her back to untie her bodice, but she was still shaking and couldn’t reach.

“I need help.” She turned her back to him and swept her drying hair over her shoulder.

She felt him approach, heard the slick swish of laces being pulled, and the rough tug that went with it. “Don’t even know how to undress yourself,” he said with a _tsk._

She couldn’t tell if he was being mean or just teasing her, so she stayed silent while he unlaced her. When finally it came loose, he pulled it open. She held it to her chest so it wouldn’t fall.

He traced his fingertips over her shoulder, down her arm. She could feel his breath on her neck, voice close to her ear. “Like a doll.”

Bumps rose on her skin. Her eyes fell shut. She wanted to ask him to keep touching her, make her warm again, apologize for being mean, but he stepped away.

“Thank you, Uncle,” she said.

She pulled the bodice away and tugged off the petticoat, left only in her smallclothes, which stuck to her uncomfortably. She pulled those off, too, naked now, relishing in the sun’s warmth, head tilted toward the sky. Her clammy skin dried quickly.

It felt so good she didn’t notice that Jaime had gone silent, and glanced over to find him watching her. He didn’t look away upon being caught, but let his eyes trail down her body in silent assessment. She wanted to hide just as much as she wanted him to keep looking. She knew she was skinny, her breasts small, body shaped more like a teenaged boy than a young woman. Still, despite her self-consciousness, a heavy feeling gathered between her legs. She quickly slipped into the tunic, had to pull the breeches tight to get them to stay up on her thin hips. Immediate relief washed over her — dry, comfortable clothes, albeit much too large for her. They smelled like Jaime, who still after all these years smelled like her mother. A pang of mournful nostalgia bubbled up, but she shoved it back down.

It was only when she was fully dressed again that he looked away, and didn’t say another word. Without the burden of the gown, she climbed onto her horse easily, and they continued toward Winterfell.

 

* * *

 

Days passed. Her muscle soreness eased. Her blisters calloused. Her skin reddened and tanned. She fell asleep every night exhausted and awoke the next morning refreshed. Eventually the lack of taste and variety in their meals no longer bothered her — eating was a necessity for movement, and on a trip like this, movement was all that mattered. They’d gone off the kingsroad and were often slowed by hilly terrain. At times they galloped through fields, her thighs clenched tightly around Bella, sweet wind blowing harshly against her. She was no longer bored during the long, silent stretches of travel. Her mind slipped into a peaceful, quiet place, and an entire afternoon could pass without her notice. They hadn’t run into another person for days.

Jaime didn’t speak much, usually only to inform her they’d be stopping soon, though he’d begun asking her to sing, which she happily obliged. She sang for hours and hours, and sometimes Jaime would sing along with her, a quiet baritone, or hum, but mostly he listened. She enjoyed being able to give him moments of reprieve from whatever dark places his mind went. But more so, she enjoyed being the center of his attention, however brief.

They stopped early one day, having found a good spot to settle for the evening, at the bank of a river. The heat of King’s Landing was slowly giving way to the chill of the north, and the weather had settled into bright warmth, a slow cool breeze. Without ceremony, Jaime began removing his armor, something she’d never seen him do. He seemed not to care she was watching him, her back against a tree as she read a book under the remaining light of day. He didn’t stop with the armor, but continued stripping, even unlatched his golden hand. She glanced away quickly as he lowered his smallclothes, then heard a splash and looked up to see him bathing in the river.

She continued reading, pretending to be nonplussed at the sight of her naked uncle splashing around like a child, but he made it difficult.

“Myrcella! Join me!” he shouted. Her stomach twisted pleasantly hearing her name fall from his lips. When she was a child, he used to say it so often that she wondered if he’d been the one to name her, if he’d slipped the idea of it into Mother’s mind.

Surely he didn’t mean what she thought he meant. She couldn’t bathe with her uncle. Then again, he’d already seen her naked, and now she him, though she’d only gotten the barest glimpse. Mid-afternoon was the perfect time for it — the water warm from the sun beating down on it for hours. And who knew when they’d get another opportunity. She quickly undressed and waded in. Jaime was watching her with amusement. The water wasn’t as hot as a bath, but not as cold as the sea. Eventually she sank down, held her nose, and slipped all the way under.

Jaime gave her plenty of space, though she didn’t actually want it. He occupied himself swimming against the current while she scrubbed her hair clean. There was so much of it; she envied Jaime’s cropped cut, which needed almost no maintenance. Every morning, she had to braid and coil her hair to keep it out of her face while they rode.

She’d gotten so focused untangling a knot with her fingers, she failed to notice Jaime swimming toward her until it was too late — he swam between her legs, and lifted her up onto his shoulders, where she quickly lost her balance and fell back into the water.

“Jaime!” she shouted as she swept her hair out of her eyes.

“Oh, it’s Jaime now? Not _Uncle?”_

“Do you not like ‘Uncle?’”

He leaned backward and let the current take him. “I hate it.”

“Why?” She realized she was standing, the water no longer covering her breasts, and sank down quickly. It didn’t matter; his eyes were trained toward the sky.

“Uncle. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. It’s exhausting, people calling you things you’re not.”

“You did slay the king. The books all say you did.”

“I killed the king, yes, but I don’t need a title for it.”

“What about ‘uncle?’ Are you not that either?”

Something flickered across his face that she couldn’t decipher. “Of course I am.”

“But you don’t want to be called it?”

“No.”

“Would you rather I call you Father?” she teased. “‘Father, help me off this horse. Father, tell me a story.’” She laughed at her own joke, but Jaime wasn’t laughing. He ignored the jab completely, swam back to shore and began to dress. She tried not to stare. He was thinner than he’d been that night before he left for war. His cock hung limp between his legs, the first she’d ever seen except in paintings, but his was better because it was Jaime’s. She’d always found the idea of cocks awkward and strange, but on him it seemed to complete a picture. She wished she could look more closely — touch it, even, if he’d let her.

“Come collect firewood,” he called.

He’d begged her to get into the water and now he was demanding she come back out.

“In a moment,” she said. Who knew how long it would be before they found another stream like this? It would only get colder from here.

“No,” he said. “Now.”

She sighed and climbed ashore. He seemed to have no interest in looking at her like he did before, so she dressed quickly to get warm again. “For someone who doesn’t want to be my uncle or my father, you certainly act like one.”

He was lacing up his boots clumsily with one hand and his teeth. “Which? A father or an uncle?”

“You waver between the two.”

“Which would you rather I be?”

“Neither,” she said spitefully. “I want you to be a knight leading his princess to her new castle.”

She expected him to get angry, but he only looked up at her, a mischievous light behind his eyes. “So you’d rather I take orders from you?”

It felt like they were playing a game, but she didn’t know the rules. She jutted her chin up. “Yes.”

She was standing and he was still kneeling, and she liked this turn of events very much. “All right, my lady. What will you have me do?”

A number of ideas raced through her mind all at once. The most immediate ones shocked her with their craven intensity — she could demand that he touch her in places she’d never been touched before, had only shamefully explored in the dark night, and it wouldn’t be wrong, because he was no longer her uncle but her knight, and her knight had to do what he was told, no matter what. He’d made a vow, after all.

“Apologize,” she said instead.

He looked surprised and a little offended. “For what?”

“Teasing me. And being so moody.”

“I’m not _moody.”_

“You’re the moodiest. I can’t say anything without you brooding for hours. You’re fine one moment and sulking the next. I’m supposed to be the teenaged girl, not you.”

He moved to stand, but she said, “You will stay kneeling.”

His surprise had turned to amusement, and something else, something darker. She didn’t actually want to give him orders, had never given an order in her life, but if he kept smiling at her like that, she’d do it forever.

He took her hand. “My lady, I apologize for hurting your delicate princess feelings.”

“It doesn’t count if you’re sarcastic.” She really did pout this time; she couldn’t help it. “You may stand now.”

She went to turn away, but he stood and caught her chin, leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of her face. His scruff dragged roughly against her. In her shock, she forgot to breathe.

“I am truly sorry, Myrcella,” he said, lips close to her ear, as if afraid someone might overhear. She sensed he wasn’t talking about the teasing or moodiness, but everything — Mother’s death, his long absence, his tarnished reputation, the war, all the ways he’d changed, and how they both knew he’d never return to the man he once was. He’d acted for so long as if they were strangers, as if he had never held her in his arms as she fell asleep, played with her, told her stories, smiled with unbridled adoration whenever she’d been near. She began to think it was all in her head, their old closeness, but he remembered, too. He remembered her, the little girl she used to be. He remembered how he’d loved her.

She stepped away, toward her horse, where she could pretend to tighten the saddle. “Thank you, Ser Jaime,” she said, continuing their little joke. “Your apology has been taken under consideration.”

 

* * *

 

Weeks later, she was staring up at the stars while Jaime was sharpening his sword. There was something wrong with the position of them. She lifted her head. The sun had set in that direction, yet the stars she was seeing were too low on the horizon.

“We’re going the wrong way,” she said.

“It’s a shortcut.”

“How can there be a shortcut? We’re going due north.”

“Go to sleep, Myrcella.”

She sat up. The fire had dwindled, and she was huddled under both her cloak and his. A wild thought occurred to her — maybe Jaime was kidnapping her. Maybe he was planning to take her far, far from Winterfell, and they could hide in the mountains forever.

“Tell me,” she said.

“You’re too smart for your own good.”

“That’s what men say who want women to stay silent.”

“I miss when you were silent.”

“I miss when you were less of a cunt, but we don’t all get what we want.”

His eyebrows hiked up in surprise. “Does baby get grumpy when she’s tired?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Don’t act like a child.”

This was normal now. It seemed like they were incapable of having a civil conversation. He was always short with her, but she’d learned to bite back. Grace and charm got her nowhere with Jaime; he ignored her when she was polite. Fierce wit and candid honesty earned his attention, and she would have done anything to keep it, even when it made him mad. She was beginning to think he only liked being surprised. Lucky for him, she was clever in a way many people weren’t — not like Tyrion who could solve complicated problems, take large amounts of information and shove them into tiny boxes. Myrcella could solve people, and Jaime was the most difficult puzzle she’d ever received.

“Tell me where we’re going,” she demanded.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

“What kind of surprise?”

He stared at her like she was stupid, like everyone at home stared at her, because she’d worked so hard to make them believe she was an idiot. “A surprise-surprise. Now go to sleep.”

“Does it have to do with my name day?” It was coming up soon, if her count of days was correct.

“Of course not.”

She frowned at him, though she wasn’t sure he could see her over the dim flame. “Then what will we do for my name day?”

“You’re not a child anymore. You don’t need a party for every year older you get.”

“I’m not asking for a party.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

I want you to love me, she almost said. Just for a day.

“Nothing.” She lay back down and burrowed deeper under the cloaks. “Goodnight, Ser Jaime.”

 

* * *

 

By the next evening, they came upon a small village. She grew immediately self-conscious of her dirty, unbrushed hair and poorly fitted men’s clothes, and quickly hiked up the hood of her cloak, wrapped it more tightly around her. Jaime stopped at what looked like an inn, got off his horse, and tied the reins to a post. 

“Well,” he said, jerking his head toward the building, “come on.”

Inside, the place was shockingly empty, just a barmaid and a drunk on a stool, and a few other people scattered about in the darkness. Jaime led her to a corner in the back. It was hours earlier than they normally stopped, and she could hardly see after staring toward the sun for so long.

“Why are we here?” she asked.

“Surprise.”

“This is the surprise?” She tried not to wrinkle her nose, but it happened anyway.

“We can go eat a rabbit and sleep on the ground another night, if you’d rather.”

“We’re staying?” she asked, suddenly excited.

“For a day or two. We can keep a low profile for that long, can’t we?”

“Won’t people recognize you?”

He looked around. No one was paying any attention to them. “Doubtful.”

She was thrilled — eating a full meal, sleeping in a warm bed, pissing in a pot.

“Thank you, Ser Jaime,” she said.

He lowered his voice. “Maybe you should quit calling me that.”

“But you don’t like ‘uncle.’ What do I call you?”

“We don’t have to be ourselves here. We can be whoever we want.”

She could have called him anything, or nothing, but the opportunity was too heady to pass up. “All right, Father.”

The briefest flash of a smile crossed his face before the barmaid interrupted them. Jaime ordered two ales, a loaf of bread, and two whole meat pies. They ate like they’d been starving. She seemed to have forgotten all of her social mores, didn’t wipe her mouth with a cloth between dainty bites, but shoveled the food quickly, almost without tasting it, and let the juice roll down her chin. She had never drunk ale before, and although she didn’t like it at first — it was bitter and heavy — she found it washed down the bread and pie well, and by the end, wanted another. Unlike Tyrion, Jaime ordered her a second, and she used it as an excuse to say, “Thank you, Father,” loudly enough for the barmaid to hear. Each time she said it, a dark, pleased look came over his face, and it felt like they were playing the game again, only this time she thought she might be winning.

By the time they were finished, her head was light and spinning, not in a bad way, though she was exceptionally tired. Jaime led her up to her room, where her bags were already waiting for her.

“Where’s your room?” she asked.

“This is my room.”

“This is _my_ room.”

“We can’t afford two rooms.”

“We’re the Lannisters. We can afford anything.”

She’d surprised him again. “You’re a Lannister now?”

“You said we could be whoever we want to be, and I want to be a Lannister.”

She didn’t wait for his reaction, instead planted herself face-first onto the bed, extremely unladylike, but she no longer cared. She moaned at the softness of a real mattress beneath her, a warm fire, no wind or rain or cold. No bugs or wild animals.

She dozed off immediately, stirred only by Jaime pulling off her boots, gently tugging the blankets out from under her, and covering her.

 

* * *

 

She awoke the next morning curled around him. He was asleep on his back, and her cheek was pressed against his shoulder, her leg over his hip. He’d taken off his armor, wore only a tunic and breeches, and she was surprised to feel a hardness at her knee. She shifted and felt the hardness still, and it took a long moment before the truth settled. An intense wave of longing washed over her, and she let herself imagine climbing on top of him, feeling his cock between her legs. It pained her to think that in just two months’ time, she’d be married to Bran Stark, and it would be his cock inside of her, not Jaime’s. 

Jaime remained asleep. She wondered if she could reach down and touch it, feel it properly, but before she could, he made a low moan in his throat and she pulled away. A moment later he opened his eyes, and for a second, he looked at her adoringly, like he used to, but his expression immediately changed — fell, really, as if he’d thought she was someone else. Like he was disappointed. Even yet still, it changed again, to the mask of complacency she was used to.

“Happy name day,” he said, groaning as he sat upright.

She shoved him. Without his armor, he moved easily. “You liar. You told me we weren’t celebrating.”

“I said we wouldn’t have a party.”

“So what will we do?”

First they went to a tailor. Jaime told the man to fit her for travel, and soon she had three sets of well-fitted tunics and breeches and smallclothes, and furs sewn onto her cloak. Next, they went to a cobbler for a pair of sturdy boots that wouldn’t allow her feet to freeze when the weather grew cold. And finally, the leatherworker, who patched together a set of hunting armor.

There, she looked in a mirror and scarcely recognized herself. Her hair was somehow brighter, knotted and tangled from weeks of hasty braids and minimal washing. She had dark circles under her eyes, but her eyes themselves were more alive than she’d ever seen them. Her pale skin seemed to glow. She looked older, she thought. She looked like the version of herself that existed in her head, the one who went on adventures like in her books, who was a knight or dragon slayer. In the armor, she fit deeper into the role, never felt so comfortable and powerful and brave. The leather was soft and smooth; it allowed her to move easily and also kept her warm. She closed one eye and pretended to shoot an invisible arrow.

Jaime came up behind her. “Do you like it?”

She stared at his reflection. “I do.” She paused, held her chin up, daring. “Thank you, Father.”

A slow smile crept over his face. He stepped closer, his chest pressing against her back, lips grazing her ear. “You’re welcome, daughter.”

By the time they finished, it was well after midday meal. They sat on a bridge, legs swinging over the side, watching the rushing water as they ate. They threw pieces of bread at birds, and then into each other’s mouths. Later, Jaime took her to an armory, where he bought her a bow and quiver and arrows. They spent the rest of the day at the archery range, Myrcella failing even to hit the target, Jaime tucked behind her as he helped her line up the shots. His hand sat heavy on her hip as he positioned her, and spoke low, encouraging words in her ear. He wasn’t wearing his armor today, so she could feel his hips pressed against her, thought back to earlier that morning and the hardness she’d felt under her thigh, the things she imagined doing to him. She seemed to get worse at shooting rather than better. Her face grew flushed and her hands started to shake; she felt the same heaviness between her legs she sometimes felt around him, but it was so much more intense than before.

“Something the matter, sweetheart?” he said.

Her heart pounded. _Sweetheart._ It was just the game, she assured herself. They were just pretending.

“No,” she replied, but something was wrong with her voice. She could barely speak, the word a little more than an exhale.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

She nodded, not wanting to risk a tremble in her voice.

His arm wrapped protectively around her, and he shifted his hips, so she couldn’t tell if he was repositioning himself or —

“You’d tell me if you needed something, wouldn’t you?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Let Father take care of you?”

She nodded, but it was a lie. She had no words for the things she needed, only feelings, images. She could point to pictures in books, nothing more, and what she wanted couldn’t be done here, out in the open for anyone to see. Part of her, the brave part, imagined asking if they could retire to their room early, and she could strip out of her new clothes and he would touch her, the way he knew how to touch a woman, the way Bran Stark probably did not.

But the other part, the part who was still a young girl, who couldn’t play pretend forever, lowered the bow and said, “I think I’m done for now.”

 

* * *

 

Her final name day surprise was a warm bath drawn for her in their room. Jaime stayed in the tavern, drinking and trading stories with the innkeeper, whom he knew and apparently trusted. Myrcella lay in the bath for over an hour, scrubbing herself clean until her skin turned pink, and then lying in stillness, watching the fire as it crackled in the hearth. She slipped her hand between her legs and let her eyes fall shut, imagined Jaime’s hand on her hip, his body pressed against her back. The things she’d do if she could command him. She’d order him to lie naked with her, allow her to inspect and play with his body. Take from him whatever she wanted.

She was slick between her legs, had been nearly all day. Her touch offered no reprieve; eventually she gave up. She dressed in one of Jaime’s tunics which fell down to her knees. Two servants came and took the bath away. She slid under the covers and fell quickly asleep.

Moments later — or maybe hours — she gasped awake at the sound of Jaime sitting on the bed. The bath had turned the air humid, sweet-smelling, and the fire was still roaring. She’d gotten overheated under the covers and mindlessly kicked them off. Jaime was a wide silhouette in the darkness, hunched over as he pulled off his boots, a soft grunt as they each hit the floor. She expected him to lie down, then, but he pulled off his tunic first. Bare-chested again, like the night before he left.

He lay down and exhaled deeply. Last night she’d fallen asleep so quickly. Too quickly. She’d deprived herself of this, lying in bed with him in the dark. She faced him, curled around him like she’d woken up that morning, with her head on his shoulder, knee touching his thigh. She waited for him to push her away, tell her the game was over and go to sleep, tomorrow they’d be back on the road and everything would return to the way it was, before he’d called her his daughter, his sweetheart, cradled her hip as he taught her how to shoot, planned an entire day for her so she could enjoy her name day out in the middle of nowhere.

Instead he turned toward her, slipped his fingers into her hair and gripped it at the base of her neck. His forehead pressed against hers. He was so close she couldn’t see him, only smelled the ale on his breath, felt the warmth from his body.

“You’re just like her,” he said, quiet but stern. His grip on her hair was tight, almost painful. He shook her a little. “I look at you and I see her.”

She didn’t dare respond. It was part of the game. It had to be.

“Say it again,” he said. “Call me —”

“Father,” she replied, then, “Father, please,” though she didn’t know what she was asking. She was afraid to touch him, though her hands yearned for it.

He let go of her hair and rolled her on her back, his knee between her thighs, pinning her. Frantic, he tugged the tunic up, bunched under her arms, her body exposed to him. She spread her legs. He slotted his hand between them and cupped her cunt, fingertips slipping into her. She could hardly breathe with him on top of her, his mouth pressed against her jaw. He smeared her wetness around and found a spot that made her gasp, kept rolling around it roughly, in a way she’d never thought to do to herself. He sucked her breast into his mouth and she nearly shouted in surprise, but it was stopped short by the feel of his finger sliding into her.

“Has anyone touched you like this?” he whispered.

She shook her head.

“Good.”

He pressed his mouth to hers and pried her lips open with his tongue. For a man with one hand, she was completely overwhelmed by his seeming ability to touch her everywhere at once. He continued working between her legs while he bit and sucked at her lips. She could feel his hardness again, straining at her hip. She wanted to touch it, but didn’t know if she was allowed, if any wrong step would make him realize the things he was doing to his own niece, the niece he’d been calling daughter, the niece who looked exactly like his sister.

“Father, I’m —”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “Let go, darling, I’ve got you.”

She shook apart, then, crying out as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Jaime silenced her with another harsh kiss. Her lips burned. She had trouble breathing and kissing at the same time, managed to turn away briefly only to gulp in a breath while he ravaged her neck. Her thighs were slick, the sheets drenched beneath her.

He sucked his fingers into his mouth. “Gods, you even taste like her.”

 

* * *

 

When she awoke the next morning, he was already upright and putting on his armor. He had a sour look about his mouth, frowning while he fought one-handed with a buckle, a task he normally completed with ease. It must be the ale, she thought. Mother was often in cloudy moods after nights she drank too much.

“Dress quickly,” he said without looking at her. “We need to make up for lost time.”

She didn’t find the time lost at all, but chose not to argue. She got out of bed and took off his tunic, tossed it on the floor, naked now. Her knees still felt like liquid from the night before, what she could hardly believe happened, and she was still wet between her legs.

“Pick that up. Put it away properly.”

“Yes, Father.” She bent over to pick it up, and dawdled while she did it, her backside in full view.

She stood and watched him watching her. His face was blank but something akin to anger flared behind his gaze. He stared into her eyes, then quickly flicked down to the rest of her body, and only seemed to get angrier about it.

“Get dressed,” he snapped, standing and making for the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

 

* * *

 

Things got worse as the days fell behind them and the cold crept in. Uncle Jaime had died in the war. Father had disappeared with her name day. Ser Jaime was all that remained now, stoic and distant, silent for days at a time. She sang to get his attention, to see the pleased, if hidden, light in his gaze again, but it never reappeared. She tried antagonizing him, insulting him, throwing fits. None of it worked. A stone wall may as well have risen between them. If he hated her so much, why did he offer to take her on this journey at all? Why had he given her such a lovely name day? Why had he crawled into bed with her and pleased her with his hand and mouth?

They were halfway through their journey now, and the plains had turned into craggy rocks and bitter winds. Often they had to dismount and guide their horses on foot. It was midday, and they had stopped briefly to eat.

“Go kill us something,” Jaime told her as he laid kindling for a fire.

“I don’t want to." Normally it was her job to find the kindling. She’d never killed an animal before; she couldn’t stand the thought.

“You’ll do as you’re told.”

“No, _you’ll_ do as _you’re_ told, knight.”

He glared at her. Overhead, clouds rolled across the sky, and with them, a chill she felt deep in her gut.

“What’s the matter, _Uncle?_ Am I acting too much like Mother for you? I thought that’s what you liked.”

Jaime stood and glowered down at her. He was really, very tall. She had to crane her neck.

“Your mother was a hateful woman,” Jaime said evenly, “and you’re her hateful, spoiled brat.”

She pushed him as hard as she could. He took a single step back, and she drew forward, beating her fists against his chest, kicking his legs. Tears flooded her eyes. “You loved her!” she shouted, though her voice no longer sounded like her own. “You loved me,” she said, weakly. “You used to love me.” He curled a hand around one of her wrists and twisted her against him, her back to him, clutching her tightly.  

“Shh,” he whispered, swiping her hair away from her neck. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right.” She stomped her foot like a child.

He said nothing more, just held her until she calmed, and let her go. She wiped her eyes, grabbed up her bow, and marched into the woods.

 

* * *

 

There was no way to get away from him. Jaime was everywhere, all the time. They were so far from the kingsroad, they hadn’t seen another person for days. She was beginning to think they were the last people in existence, and she’d be trapped here with the cruel ghost of her beloved uncle for eternity.

The weather grew colder. The number of hours they could travel in a day shortened, and she found herself freezing at twilight, staring at the fire and waiting until she was tired enough to sleep.

One night as she was huddled in her cloak, Jaime handed her a sword. It was a small thing, the hilt banged up and tarnished. Probably not live steel, a practice sword for a young boy. She took it. The cold stung her palm.

“What is this?” she asked.

“A sword,” he said, like she was stupid.

“What am I doing with it?”

He pulled his own from its sheath. “Fighting me.”

“I’m not fighting you. You only have one hand.”

“And you’ve never held a sword in your life.”

“What if I hurt you?”

He scoffed. “What if I hurt you?”

“You wouldn’t.”

He tapped her shoulder lightly with the flat of the blade. She flinched. “So you’ve got nothing to lose. Stand up and fight me.”

She got to her feet and regretted unfurling herself from the warm cocoon of her cloak. The sword was heavy and she kept it pointed at the ground, held it loosely like it might bite her. He raised his. “Hit me.”

She flicked her sword lazily at his. It made a satisfying clang.

“Don’t hit the sword,” he said. “Hit me.”

“I don’t want to hit you.”

“I doubt that.”

“I’m tired. I don’t want to do this.”

He was undeterred. “You know what I hate about you? You don’t work for anything. You think you deserve everything you want.”

The jab hurt worse than anything anyone had ever said to her, even the time Littlefinger called her an annoying little twat, but she was tired of the game, and refused to play it. “Of course I do, Ser Jaime. I’m a princess. And what exactly are you?”

“I take it back. You’re nothing like your mother. You’re worse.”

She gripped the hilt more tightly, until the ridges and bumps dug painfully into her hand.

“You’re a Baratheon,” Jaime said. “And Baratheons are entitled, slovenly fools.” When it was clear she remained unaffected, he added, “Especially that brother of yours. Fat little moron, doesn’t know his head from his ass.”

Before she knew what she was doing, she barged forward and swung the sword. He parried. She nearly lost her balance, held onto the hilt with two hands, and went after him again. She tried to go over his blade, under it, around it, but he met her every movement.

“Good,” he said, easily deflecting an overhand blow. “Very good.”

“It doesn’t feel good,” she said through heavy breaths. They were circling each other now, her feet instinctively trying to find an opening he wasn’t prepared for.

“Still cold?”

She wasn’t. In fact she was sweating.

While she was distracted, he took a swing at her. She jumped back and raised her sword against it, just parrying before it could strike her, but she lost her footing and fell. The ground was cold and damp, and her body suddenly ached too much to move. Jaime knelt beside her, looking smug and something else. Pleased. Like she’d impressed him.

“We’ll make a deal,” he said.

She was having trouble catching her breath. Jaime seemed just as relaxed as he had before they’d begun fighting.

“We’ll keep practicing, and whenever you land a blow, I’ll kiss you.”

“Where?” she blurted, which was almost as embarrassing as being so winded. It wasn’t just the thought of being kissed again that thrilled her, but that he’d said it so openly, soberly, while looking into her eyes. These last few weeks of silence had made her feel like she was crazy, like she’d made it all up, the nice things he did for her and the sweet things he said.

“Anywhere you like.”

 

* * *

 

During the day, Jaime was still in his own head, though he seemed less moody than before, and even asked her to sing sometimes. At night, before eating, they sparred. Jaime’s instructions were brief; mostly he taught by example. They repeated the same moves over and over, until he got bored and tripped her up with something new, and they practiced the new move, starting slow, then moving more quickly until it felt fluid. At the end, they fought freely. Jaime won every time, either by getting close enough to scare her and prompting a quick, “I yield!” Or she’d trip and fall, or simply run out of breath. It was hard to believe Jaime had been even better with his other hand.

She saw no progress in herself at all. The sword felt as unwieldy after two weeks as it had that very first night. The only difference was that, when her mind drifted off while they rode, she often repeated the movements she had learned the night before, and found herself drafting scenarios in her head in which she would use them. Her hands were rough and dirty all the time. Her blisters had all hardened. She chewed off her nails and spit them into the dirt, a habit from when she was young and which septas had all tried to smack out of her. One even went so far as to dip her fingertips in poison, so if she bit them, she’d have an hours-long stomach ache. Jaime didn’t care how unladylike she was. It seemed as if the further she got from her well-trained etiquette, the angrier and more brash and wild she was, the more he liked her.

She didn’t know how it happened, really. One moment she was holding her sword and the next she wasn’t. She was sweating and heaving and snow was raining down on them. Her teeth were gritted. She was furious — he’d pulled some new stunt on her, twirled his blade around hers until it met the hilt, then flicked the thing right out of her grip, skinning her thumb on the way. Heavy droplets of blood smacked against the snow and dyed it red.

She held her wrist in her hand, tears welling in her eyes. Jaime lowered his sword and approached her, an apology poised on his tongue, maybe, or a snarky comment about how she should be more careful. When he was close enough, she barreled into him, all her weight slamming into his chest. He fell back with a surprised grunt, toppling to the ground. She fell with him, straddling his hips and unsheathing Tyrion's knife from her boot.

She held it to his throat. Blood was still dripping from her hand, and her hair had come undone from her braid. Snow clumped in her eyelashes. In the distance, an owl hooted softly. The night had fallen and she could barely see the sparkling green of Jaime’s eyes.

“Yield,” she hissed.

Surprised laughter bubbled from his throat. Even at her mercy, he had no fear. “I yield.”

She dropped the knife and let herself breathe. Her hand throbbed. “Does it count?”

“You didn’t hit me.”

“I did too. Just not with a sword. You didn’t specify.”

His body was large and firm between her legs. He hadn’t worn his armor in days.

“All right,” he said.

“Anywhere?” she reminded him.

“Anywhere.”

She put her bloody hand in his face. He took it, and pressed his lips gently to the cut. It wasn’t deep. She nearly laughed at the thought of sustaining such an injury at home. She’d spend the whole day in bed crying, inconsolable. She’d demand Pycelle come and examine her immediately, ask for milk of the poppy and get denied and throw a fit.

His mouth came away shining red. He licked it off his lips. Her blood was on his tongue, and suddenly she’d lost her breath again. He curled his hand around the back of her head and pulled her down to him, crushed his lips to hers as he had on her name day. She knew what to expect this time. Like sparring, she was able to meet each movement of his mouth. Her bloody hand was propping her up, the snow soothing the sting, while the other came to rest around his neck. His pulse fluttered against her palm, and somehow that was more real than his tongue in her mouth.

She felt his hardness between her legs, and on impulse, shifted her hips over it. The tiniest choked sound fell from his throat, so she did it again, and this time, he gripped her hip and pushed up into her. Pleasure shocked her, and soon her body ran all on its own, using his cock to shove against the sensitive spot that had sent her reeling before.

Soon she was grinding onto him, or maybe he was guiding her. It took only moments to fall apart, her head tilted back, a shout that rustled a bird from its branch. Warmth spread from her center, hotter than sitting beside any flame. When she looked down again he was watching her, eyes wide, a streak of blood across his scraggly chin. She thought it was over, but he squeezed her tightly with his flesh hand and continued, eyes closing. She understood then what was happening, understood but couldn’t believe it. Her body twitched with little bolts of lightning, almost unpleasant, but she was too busy pushing herself faster and harder. Jaime tensed and his mouth fell open and he let out a long, slow exhale. She wanted him to do what he just did again, but inside her. Somehow, despite all they’d done, that seemed too far.

She clamored off of him. His breath billowed out between his lips, and he brought his arm up to cover his eyes.

“The fire’s dying,” he said lazily. “Stoke it before it goes out.”

 

* * *

 

She didn’t know such cold was possible. The snow was so thick their horses could no longer brave it. Wind choked her and froze her tears. Even Jaime struggled. It took them a day of travel in the wrong direction to find shelter, an abandoned fort missing a western wall, but it had a roof, and she and Jaime were able to patch it using branches and packed-down ice. Piercing pain rang through her as she began to thaw. They only had days remaining of their journey; she hated the cold for its unyielding bite, but loved it for their delay.

She fell into a fitful sleep, one in which she awoke repeatedly in her own dream, to summertime and sun, and Jaime bathing in a river, and sweetrolls, fruit, and cheese all laid out for her in a buffet. She fell asleep in the dream and woke up again to a new reality, this one more real than the one before it, and thought surely _now_ she was awake. But the dreams grew darker — she woke up amid battle to find Jaime stabbed by a spear; in the throne room the day Jaime had slayed the king; in the darkest black of night in the middle of the ocean, stars reflected on a mirror-glass sea, which she shattered while falling into it. Then she was her lord mother, the queen, and Jaime, the knight at her side. She looked at him and saw herself reflected back, her match in nearly every way. And Jaime loved her, truly loved her, the way he could never love another.

“Myrcella,” she heard from a great distance. “Myrcella, darling, wake up.”

Her eyelids felt heavy as she lifted them. Jaime was looking down at her, his hand pressed to her cheek.

“You’re barely breathing,” he said, and bizarrely began undressing. It was another dream. She closed her eyes again and willed herself to the next one. Maybe there would be sunlight again.

“Help me,” he said, and she felt a tugging at her tunic. “We need to get you warm.”

She swatted him away, but her hands were numb clubs.

“Myrcella,” he said, more sternly. “Wake up.”

Somehow she dragged herself to sitting and helped him undress her. She expected to get colder but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Naked now, Jaime threw every fur and cloak and scrap of clothing they had on top of them, and held her to his chest. He was warm. She began to shiver, and her pulse thudded heavily against her throat. At some point, she started crying. Jaime shushed her and held her and kissed the top of her head. Time and space slipped from her mind — all she knew was Jaime’s heartbeat against her ear and a raging storm of dreams.

 

* * *

 

She awoke before him. Her forehead was pressed to his chest. He slept lightly, and breathed shallow, quick breaths in his sleep. She was sweating now, so warm she could have been on fire. She shifted mindlessly, brought her thigh up to his hip. She was surprised by the firmness of his cock, and more by her own arousal. She moved her hips against him, the way that had felt so good before. From afar, his cock had looked reasonably sized, but now, feeling it bare against her, it seemed enormous. She wondered if she could force him to fuck her somehow, if maybe she could impale herself on him without him waking up.

It was an errant thought soon dismissed as Jaime awoke and froze, a small sound of surprise lodged in his throat. She didn’t care. Desperately, she began rutting herself on him. He placed his hand on her hip as if to push her away, and she nearly argued, but he rolled her onto her back. The covers kicked up and brought in a blast of cold air.

“If you were expecting me to say no,” he said, voice a low rumble, “you’re mistaken.”

She wondered if this was another of her dreams. His cock dragged over her, pressing in just slightly on each pass. She’d never wanted anything more in her life.

With a hard thrust of his hips, he pushed into her. She cried out, thighs clamping together fruitlessly. All of the books made it seem like a pleasurable thing; her septas, the opposite. Both were right — the pain was agonizing, like being torn in two, but underneath it, she could feel pleasure rising to the surface. He slid out and shoved back in again, grunting. Tears streamed from the sides of her eyes. He moved faster, then, and slowly the pain bled away entirely, and she found herself shouting in pleasure, saying words like _more_ and _please_ and, over and over, _father._

His teeth were at her throat; his movements, merciless. She could hardly breathe. She clung to him mindlessly. Her body felt like an animal’s, like it was doing something it was trained to do without her having realized it, like swallowing or breathing. She was grateful for months spent on horseback. Her thighs clenched around him, dragged him deeper. His movements grew erratic and suddenly he halted, groaned low by her throat.

“My darling,” he said, breathless as he spilled inside of her. “Myrcella.”

 

* * *

 

The snow and wind eased into milder days, though she hated the north more with each passing step. Jaime, predictably, grew sullen again. She could sense the truth in him now, the need to push her away conflicting with the desire to draw her nearer. In the insufferable quiet, she began teasing him.

She began gushing about her excitement to marry the Stark boy, how thrilled she was to be bedded by him on their wedding night, to fall in love and rule Winterfell together. Jaime ignored her until she grew bored of the lie, though his shoulders remained shrugged up and tense, and he didn’t speak the rest of the day.

She touched herself and wiped the scent on his lips. He took her roughly by the wrist and pressed her against a tree, trailed his nose and mouth down her throat like a beast capturing its prey. Her fingertips pulsed painfully and her breath came out in jagged bursts. Finally, he tossed her wrist away and stalked angrily into the woods.

She cuddled up to him at nightfall, claiming to be cold as she was the night of the storm. Jaime rolled away and told her to go back to her side of the fire. She didn’t move. He spoke more sternly: “Go back or I will carry you back.”

“Then carry me.”

He picked her up the way he had that night before he left for Riverrun, walked her across their camp, and set her down on her bedroll.

“Leave me alone,” he said, and went back to his own.

She crawled back to him immediately, curled herself around his back and threw a fur overtop of them. He sighed, and this time didn’t ask her to leave.

They were a mere day’s ride from Winterfell now. Dread had befallen them. Even Myrcella’s games to goad Jaime into touching her were no longer enticing. Her heart hung heavy in her chest. Nothing she said or did would stop her fate.

They set up camp early that evening. Jaime told her to go find something to shoot. Hunting no longer bothered her. In the Red Keep, food appeared before her without her ever having to think about where it had come from or who had prepared it. Here in the wilderness, if you weren’t willing to kill, you would starve. She tracked a pheasant overhead, lined up her shot, and pulled, but missed. She waited against a log for a sign of another animal, but none came. The further north they traveled, the larger the game. Her arrows could not fell an elk, and even if they could, she and Jaime could not carry it with them. Her hunts took longer now, and required more stealth and patience.

Quietly, she crept toward her arrow to collect it. Though she could make her own now, it was an arduous process, and she was willing to walk miles to collect her fallen arrows rather than make new.

The crack of a twig. Brush shifting. Birds launching from branches. She drew an arrow and pointed it toward the noise. It sounded large, maybe an elk, or more likely, Jaime trying to scare her. Then again, rodents could sound large in the right patch of forest. The bowstring cut almost painfully into her lip. She was afraid to blink or breathe.

Crackling again, this time from the side, but she was too slow. Heavy arms wrapped around her, lifting her. Two other men marched toward her. She shrieked only briefly before a sweaty, fat hand clapped over her mouth.

“We found us a princess, didn’t we?” one of them said. “All the way out here.”

“Pretty princess,” another replied, a blunt knife skating down her cheek.

They wore tattered skins and horned hats and held rusted weapons. Their teeth were yellowed, some missing. One man grabbed her by the legs. Another took her bow and quiver.

She’d gone too far out. There was no way Jaime could hear her. The men dragged her west to their camp. They gagged her and tied her wrists around the neck of the largest man while she rode on his back. He smelled putrid. Tears ran down her face, and she hated herself for it, for not being brave like Jaime had taught her. Like her mother would have been.

At their camp, they tied her to a tree and talked about all the horrible things they wanted to do to her. After they raped her, they’d kill her, they decided. The shortest of them with a helm of two cracked antlers said, “Why do we have to kill her? Why can’t we keep her? That ways, you know, we could keep raping her.” He looked at her. “Small one, innit she? Won’t eat much food. Don’t need to keep her happy, just alive.”

“Don’t want her getting thin on us.”

“Aye, I like ‘em plump,” the largest said.

“Shall we begin?” the short one asked.

“Eat first. Can’t get it up when I’m ‘ungry.”

They sat around a fire, ignoring her while they tore savagely into two squirrels. She could have caught them something better, if they’d let her. She was so much more than a princess, than a cunt to fuck. It was a tragedy they couldn’t see it.

They finished, and the inevitable drew nearer, though they seemed now to be drowsily staring at the fire. The cold had settled in for the night. She’d finished her shivers, which meant the dreams would set in soon. Maybe she would be passed out while they had their way with her. She had trouble keeping her eyes open.

A shift in the brush. Her eyes snapped open and peered into the inky dark of the forest. She saw a shape moving, large and slow. A bear, maybe. Even death by bear-maul would be a better fate than what she was about to endure.

Jaime stealthily emerged from the shadows, firelight flickering over his face. She jolted in surprise, nearly screamed into the gag. He met her eyes and brought a finger to his lips. She calmed herself and nodded. Her heart began to race — she could handle the thought of being raped and murdered, but the thought of Jaime being killed while she watched was too much to bear.

The medium-sized man had passed out in front of the fire. The large one had gone off to take a piss. The smallest one was leaning against a tree, watching the fire and chewing on a blade of grass. Jaime silently snuck up behind him, sword in hand, and slit his throat. The man made a loud gurgling sound. Myrcella closed her eyes and turned away as blood sprayed her face.

The sleeping man awoke, but before he could get to his feet, Jaime stabbed him in the gut with the sword. The man screamed, and the largest man came lumbering back to the clearing, tucking himself back into his breeches.

Jaime yanked his sword out of the man’s gut, and went to swing it again, but the large man barreled into him and knocked him down. They grappled. Myrcella screamed and fought against her restraints, not caring about the rope burn on her wrists, the throb in her throat.

The large man gained the upper hand, had Jaime on his back, landed a solid punch to his jaw. Jaime gaped, but quickly recovered, and slammed his golden hand into the side of the man’s head, which hit with a sickening crack. The man fell to the side, dazed. Jaime, whose sword had been thrown in the opposite direction, used the opportunity to untie Myrcella’s restraints.

“Are you all r—” he began, when the man tackled him again.

He had loosened the restraints enough that Myrcella could wriggle out of them and tug down her gag. The man had Jaime on his back again, and this time he was strangling him, and Jaime’s eyes were rolling back into his head. Myrcella slid her dagger from her boot, jumped on the man’s back, and stabbed him in the neck. He shouted wetly, fought to throw her off, but still wouldn’t let go of Jaime. She pulled the blade out and sunk it into his eye, which did the trick. He let go, flailed for a moment, grasping uselessly at her, and slumped dead.

Myrcella climbed off of him and Jaime stood. His face was bloody, his eye black. He stumbled toward her and cupped her face in his hand.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked urgently.

“Not really.”

“They didn’t —”

“No.”

“Thank the gods,” he said, and kissed her. He tasted of copper and sweat. More so now than ever before, a shameful rush of desire ran through her. She wanted him to take her, right here among these dead bodies, covered in dirt and blood. He backed her against the tree to which she’d been tied.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said.

“No,” she replied with a small shake of her head, “never.”

He spun her to face the tree and lowered her breeches to her thighs. With a short, hard push, he was inside of her. She cried out. His hand clutched her hip, and she rested hers overtop, pushing back against him to meet each thrust. Soon he was coming deep inside of her, and she let herself imagine, for the briefest moment, that she could bear his child.

They staggered back to camp, where their horses were tied happily and their fire had gone out. Jaime didn’t bother stoking it to life again. Jaime was unable to keep himself off of her, and he bedded her again, starting with his mouth between her legs to suck his own seed out of her, and she came hard against his lips.

After, he ran his fingers over her naked body as they lay beneath a mound of furs.

“You know I loved your mother,” he said, so quietly she wondered if he had meant for her to hear.

“I know,” she replied drowsily.

“You know I love you as I loved her.”

She nodded, but it was a lie. She hadn’t known until tonight that Jaime truly loved her, or that his love ran as deep for her as it had his own twin. She fell asleep thinking only of his love, the truest kind of love, and let herself forget about the impending end of their journey.

 

* * *

 

In the light of morning, Jaime’s wounds were much worse than they’d seemed. She had to shake his shoulders to wake him up. He had an abdominal wound she hadn’t noticed the night before, and she’d awakened drenched in his blood. She used all her strength to help him onto his horse, and he rode slumped over and half-conscious.

When they arrived at Winterfell, Lady Stark and her children met them at the gate. There were only three: two girls and a little boy, far too young to be Bran.

“I hope the road treated you well,” Lady Stark said with a smile that quickly fell as she noticed Jaime’s poor state.

Myrcella climbed off her horse. “He needs help.”

“Get the maester,” Lady Stark told her smallest daughter. “Hurry.”

The castle was surprisingly warm. The humidity reminded Myrcella of King’s Landing. She had read somewhere that hot springs ran below ground and vents brought up the heat. The maester would not let her follow Jaime. She was taken instead to her room by the red-haired daughter, Sansa, who flitted about talking senselessly. Myrcella wondered if she herself had ever sounded so vapid. After months on the road with Jaime, she no longer feared silence, no longer felt the need to fill every space of quiet with needless chatter.

Sansa flicked her gaze down Myrcella’s body with a single eyebrow raised and suddenly Myrcella felt self-conscious. She was wearing hunting gear, caked in dried blood, her hair a nest of leaves and twigs.

“I hope you brought more to wear than that,” Sansa said. Her lips smiled but her eyes didn’t. “If not, I’ll be happy to give you one of mine.”

“I’d just like a bath, thanks.”

“I’ll have one drawn for you," Sansa said with a nod.

Before she left, Myrcella asked, “Where’s Bran?”

Her lips were pursed like she was hiding something. “I’m sure he’ll drop in soon.”

True to her word, a bath was drawn and a gown laid out. By the time Myrcella finished washing, the water was a murky red. A septa had taken her armor to scrub. She stared mournfully at the gown, which was just so _northern_ — dark green and long-sleeved, a leafy adornment at the bodice. It looked heavy and uncomfortable. How had she ever worn such things?

She rummaged in her bag for a spare pair of breeches and a somewhat clean tunic, dressed quickly and sat in front of the fire, her knees gathered to her chest, worrying about Jaime. A gust of cold wind pushed the window open and jarred her from her thoughts. She spun around just as a boy dropped from above and crouched on her windowsill. She reached for the knife in her boot.

The boy tilted his head. “Hello, Myrcella.”

She stood. “You must be Bran Stark.”

He hopped down from the sill into her room. He was a tall boy, more handsome than she’d expected — a flat nose, black hair, pale skin. She found him remarkably appealing. Something about his face was both innocent and deeply wise. When he looked at her, she felt as if he could see all of her, all the things she wanted to keep hidden.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you want? It’s rude to come into a lady’s room unannounced.”

“Shall I announce myself?” He smiled wistfully. “Darling.”

A shiver ran down her back. He took a step toward her and she took one back, closer to the fire. “Stop that. Don’t call me that.”

She reached blindly behind her and found a poker. He tilted his head back and forth slowly like a bird.

“You are just as I imagined you,” he said, lowering his eyes to search her the way a dog might curiously sniff another. The fire seared the backs of her legs. Were she wearing a dress, it would have caught. He touched her hair gently, ran two fingers through the tendrils that had fallen out of her braid. “But you will never love me the way you love another.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” She was shaking despite the heat.

Outside her door, footsteps approached among hushed whispers.

Bran took her hand and gently kissed the back of it. “Goodnight, Myrcella. I look forward to marrying you.” Then he climbed out the window, and with a final smile, dropped out of sight.

 

* * *

 

Winterfell was quiet and cold like death itself, settled into a long state of mourning for Robb Stark. Each new dayshe awoke wondering if she had died on the road on that freezing night, and was condemned to eternity in this frigid, dark place, with these sorrowful people, and no Jaime to light her path.

The maester would not let Myrcella see him. She knew the Starks found her rude and unsettling. She refused to wear the gowns offered to her. Sansa was given the duty of seeing her around the castle and keeping her occupied, which was both boring and infuriating — Myrcella could tell that Sansa was more than met the eye. Why she insisted on behaving like she lacked a brain was irritating, as much as Myrcella could understand it. She attempted repeatedly to engage Sansa in real conversation about history and the Targaryen war, but Sansa deflected by nodding to Myrcella’s cross stitch and remarking on what a lovely job she was doing. Often, Myrcella excused herself and went hunting to manage her anxieties. There she found the godswood, and for brief moments, closed her eyes, laid her bow across her knees, and sought peace.

A week into her stay, the small girl, Arya, and the bastard boy, Jon, followed her to hunt. They tried being silent, but she heard them, and nearly shot an arrow through the boy’s eyes. His white wolf growled beside him.

“We want to help,” Arya said. At her hip rested a thin sword. A grey wolf sat at her heels.

Myrcella lowered her bow. “I don’t need help.”

“Sansa told us to see to you,” Jon said, but there was a resentful clip to his tone.

“You’ve seen to me. Your duty is filled,” Myrcella replied, marching onward. She dragged a sled behind her in case she caught larger game. The butcher’s boy was one of the few things she liked about Winterfell. She returned from her hunts and watched his face light up as she presented him with whatever she’d killed. When the maester shuffled her away from the door of Jaime’s rooms, she went to the kitchens to hide from Sansa, where the butcher’s boy snuck her pie crusts.

Arya and Jon continued following her. The girl’s steps were quiet and light, but the boy stomped along like a footsoldier.

“I like your bow,” Arya said loudly. A crow lifted angrily from a branch.

Myrcella stopped. “If you’re going to join me, you have to be quiet. You’re scaring away the game.”

“You’re not what I expected a princess to be like,” Arya said.

“Sansa’s _so_ disappointed,” Jon said, seeming to stifle smug laughter.

“We’re not,” Arya added brightly.

“Bran’s not,” Jon said.

There was a thump and Jon said “ow” and Arya hissed “shut up.”

In the distance, rushing hooves galloped toward them. An older man with a long beard and platemail approached.

“My lady,” he said. “Your uncle has awakened. He’s asked to see you.” He held a hand out to her, and Myrcella climbed atop the horse.

 

* * *

 

Jaime looked as pale and tired as he had when he’d returned from Riverrun. His gilded hand sat on a table beside him, and he was buried under a mound of furs. He was well tended to, she could tell, and felt a strange surge of fondness for this place.

He offered her a wan smile as she approached and took a seat on the bed. It was difficult not to kiss him, but Ser Rodrik hovered at the doorway.

She invoked all the stoic confidence of her lord mother. “You may leave us.”

Ser Rodrik nodded and closed the door behind him. She waited for his footfalls to silence down the stairwell before leaning down to maul Jaime with kisses. He smiled against her mouth and pushed her gently away.

“I thought you were dying,” she said, her hand over of his on her chest.

Jaime’s voice was thin and ragged. “Death didn’t want me.”

“Good. You’re all mine then.”

His weak smile fell. “Have you married yet?”

“Tomorrow.”

His silence unsettled her. He glanced out the window, the first sunny day since she’d arrived. She attributed his waking to it — Lannisters could not live without the sun.

“I have to return, darling,” he said quietly.

“No.” She squeezed his hand more tightly. Tears welled in her eyes. “Please, don’t. You’re unwell.”

“I’m returning with Stark’s army.”

“You can’t go to war. Even _I_ could beat you.” She tried to smile but the gesture forced a tear to drop down her cheek. “You’ll die.”

“When this war is over, I’ll return to you. I promise.”

“You’ll be my knight?”

“I will.”

“Forever?”

“For as long as your blood beats in my veins, I will be your knight.”

She wept, then, in anger and fear and heartache. Her mother would not have wept for Jaime’s life. She would have stood strong and whispered tactics into the king’s ear, stopped the war and secured the throne before the Targaryen army could march across the Narrow Sea.

“Come here,” Jaime said, and pulled her down beside him, where she curled into his embrace, and pretended everything would be all right.

 

* * *

 

Throughout the wedding, all Myrcella could feel was Jaime’s eyes on her. He was armored, standing off to the side, her back to him. Something simmered beneath his gaze — anger, jealousy, grief. She was inextricably tied to him now, could think his thoughts, feel his heart. He had walked her down the aisle in place of her father.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the Septon said.

Bran cloaked her. A tear slipped down the bridge of her nose, and he swept it away with his thumb.

“Do not cry,” he whispered, their heads bowed together. “This is not the end.”

Bran took her hand and lifted it. The septon tied a red ribbon around their wrists and announced, "Let it be known that Myrcella of House Baratheon and Bran of House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."

A sob escaped her throat and echoed through the hall. To anyone else, it may seem as if she wept in joy. Her only consolation was that Jaime knew the truth, knew the depth of her love for him.

She spoke her vows with a quiet, shaking voice. Bran’s, too, were murmured. He lifted her chin and said, “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” with such sincerity, her tears stopped and she almost believed him. He kissed her chastely, his lips soft and light, so unlike Jaime’s harsh, devouring kisses. The septon pronounced them husband and wife.

After the feast, she was carried to her rooms and waited for him, not on the bed, but by the fire, where he’d found her before. She wondered if she should bother explaining about her maidenhood, why there would be no blood marring their white wedding linens. Bran entered through the door this time. He looked small and childlike in his enormous furs, and joined her by the fire.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“For your heartache.”

Her voice came out flat and strong, as it should be. As her lord mother taught her to be. _Do not let them see your heart._ “I have none.”

She shivered, not from cold but something else, some third presence that joined them in this room and which she had felt only once before, when they first met.

“I know,” he said.

“Know what?”

“You’re in love with your father.”

She barked a laugh, the echo rattling the stone walls. “That fat oaf?”

“Not the king.” He turned to look at her. “Your real father.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She curled more tightly into herself, the truth running like a flame up her spine. Her face and neck flushed. Her heart raced.

“You do. You’ve known the truth a long time.”

“Stop it. Stop speaking to me.”

The voice that came from his throat then was not his, but Jaime’s. “We don’t get to choose who we love.”

Her head snapped toward him. His eyes were wholly white. The fire flickered over them.

“How did you —” she began.

His eyes settled back to normal, and so did his voice. “Please trust me when I say I know the truth.”

She sat silently, a lump lodged in her throat, coloring her memories anew. All the things Jaime said and did. All the ways he had compared her to his sister. He meant it when he said he loved Myrcella the way he’d loved her mother. They were all one.

“Don’t worry,” Bran said. “I will not be bedding you tonight, or any night hereafter.”

“Why not?”

“Human pleasures are meaningless to me.”

“How will we bear children?”

He placed a hand firmly on her belly. “You are already with child.”

She clasped her hand over his. She could feel this truth as well. It was Jaime’s child, as she was Jaime’s child.   

 

* * *

 

The next day, she escaped Sansa’s tight grasp for long enough to accost Jaime in his rooms. His back was to her, and he was packing his things. She settled a chair under the doorknob.

“Yes, my lady?” he asked, not bothering to look up from his task.

Her eyes already stung. Too many truths had built up. They had no other way to escape.

“Look at me, knight,” she demanded.

He did. His eyes were red-rimmed. He looked haggard and exhausted. His armor was discarded at the side of the bed as if he’d thrown it off in anger.

She couldn’t help herself — she launched into his arms and buried her face in his chest, struggled to breathe as he held her tightly to him and kissed her head.

“Did he touch you?” he asked, his hand gripping her hair, voice a low growl by her ear.

She shook her head. “And he won’t. He promised.”

Jaime pulled away, confused. She took his hand and lowered it to her belly. “He told me the truth.”

“What truth is that?” he asked, eyes searching her, face paling.

“That you are my father, and I am bearing your child.”

Jaime gripped the fabric of her tunic and stared at her in disbelief. The truth settled on him as it had her. He pulled her in, kissed her harshly.

“Gods,” he whispered, backing her to the bed. “I would have you right here.”

“We don’t have time.” Sansa would be looking for her any minute.

He tugged her breeches. “Time will wait for us.”

She lifted her hips and he pulled them off, settled between her legs and slotted his mouth to her. It took only moments before she was crying out, and she had barely caught her breath before Jaime entered her. He fucked her unlike any time before. He was slow and sweet with her, looked into her eyes and reminded her how much he loved her. 

After, they lay together, his seed spilling out of her, sweat cooling their bodies. Bran would know of this, her betrayal, as he knew other things, but she couldn't bring herself to care. 

“Will you come back to me?” she asked, sounding like a child again.

“I’ll always return to you. I promise.” He cupped her cheek in hand and looked on her as if to map her face into his mind. “Your mother would have loved the woman you’ve become.”

She tried to imagine it, the three of them like this, her mother and father and her, loving only the people whose blood ran through their veins. She was a Lannister, after all, and Lannisters knew only how to love each other.

 

* * *

 

Jaime, Ser Rodrik, and Lord Stark led a small army to the gates of Winterfell. Myrcella stood beside Bran, her bodice squeezing her ribs uncomfortably, frozen mud seeping into the hems of her gown. Her hair was woven tightly atop her head.

Jaime stopped before her and held his flesh hand out. She offered hers, and squeezed, unwilling to let him go. He said nothing. Any words she might have said were stopped in her throat. She imagined him lifting her onto his horse, both of them running away into the woods, past the wall, living as wildlings did.

He traced his thumb across the back of her hand and nodded. "My princess," he said, and reluctantly let her go. He trotted along behind Lord Stark, past the gates, his new army behind him.

“Will he return?” she asked, a whisper for only Bran to hear.

“I know only what has passed,” Bran replied. “Fate alone knows what’s to come.”

She had waited six years for him, once. She could wait again, and trust that he would always return to her.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is the rarest of rare pairs and age gap incest to boot, so I appreciate your readership so much. This fic took over two years to write, but it needed written, considering the number of times I rewatched the myrcellaime scenes in season 5. If you enjoyed it, consider [reblogging the photoset](https://bettsfic.tumblr.com/post/185799261832/a-long-way-in-which-myrcella-is-betrothed-to-bran).


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